


I've Got a Mind Full of Wicked Designs

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Throne Sex, significant dates only significant in retrospect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: After three years as Jessamine's lover, Corvo doesn't think much of being summoned in the middle of the night. The throne room, though, and for something like this... That's a bit new.





	I've Got a Mind Full of Wicked Designs

**Author's Note:**

> Seems like if you're in this fandom for long enough, sooner or later you end up writing one of these. :D
> 
> This may be the first part in a series. Haven't decided yet. I have Ideas so we'll see if they go anywhere. 
> 
> ❤️

“Come here.”

Jessamine’s voice is strangely loud, for how far away she is and for the size of the room. It echoes dreamily off the stone walls and the pillars. The sound seems to drift smoothly to him, carried by the light of the hanging chandeliers. She's got those lights set lower than usual, and they fill the throne room with shadows rather than flooding it with crystalline illumination.

No light through the high windows but moonlight, falling gauzy and pale across the floor. Cold light. Outside in the heart of the Month of Ice the cold is bitter, but in here he doesn't feel the chill.

For a moment, Corvo doesn't obey her, although it's not out of any conscious desire to resist. He never would, never in his right mind. She commands and he obeys, and it was always that way from the first second she chose him until now, and since she invited him into her bed over three years ago, that sense of obedience has only intensified.

It's not obligation to obey. It's that he wants to. He wants to, more than anything. He was never a man who wanted to be ruled, until her—until the first command she gave him, and while he no longer recalls what that command might have been, he does recall how it made him feel. He was little more than a boy, lost and alone in a strange city, and this child—this child with her beautiful, solemn eyes—lifted him up and chose him, out of everyone else she might have chosen, and she gave him a purpose.

She's not a child anymore. She hasn't been one for a long time. But her eyes haven't changed.

Except when he can make them dance with happiness, make them shine, sparkle with mischief. That glitter just for him, which only he's permitted to see.

So much just for him. He's favored beyond what he ever believed was possible. And this isn't remotely the first time she's sent for him at night and called him to her side, but he doesn't think there was ever a time when she summoned him to the throne room. Her study, the library, the smoking lounge, the terrace near the waterlock on warm nights to share her wine and her cigars and to talk quietly about nothing in particular, and of course to her rooms. To her bed.

But this is new.

It's only that novelty, dreamlike as her voice passing through the moonlight, that makes him hesitate. If this is a dream, there's absolutely no reason for him to not immediately obey her, but it's instinct for him to pause in situations where anything seems unfamiliar, if pausing is possible, and feel it out, analyze what he can feel.

He can see her at the far end of the room, seated on the throne like he's seen her a thousand times before, erect but casual with her legs crossed and her hands relaxed over the ends of the armrests. She's not wearing nightclothes; she's still dressed for the day. As he stares at her, she raises a hand and beckons.

“I said, _come_ _here_.”

Not impatient. Gentle, even. But firmly emphatic.

He starts toward her.

He dressed when he was called, although he was in bed at the time. He always does, because he has to be ready for the unexpected and because he's not always sure of what he's being called for; he hasn't been told this time, either. The sound of his boots as he walks is muffled by the rich carpet, the metallic clink of his scabbard against his belt is nearly inaudible—or it should be, but like her voice it's unnaturally loud in his ears. It's almost unsettling, the whole of it, but he's not unsettled.

If something was wrong, he can't think of any reason why she would tell him in this setting, in this way.

The lamp over the throne is the brightest in the room, banishing the shadows to the corners and throwing her form and face into increasingly sharp relief the nearer he gets to her. The black velvet of her suit stark against her skin, how it hugs the curves of her body in a way that's decidedly pleasant to look at without being at all indecent. Her dark hair pulled tight into its customary coil at the back and top of her head, her high cheekbones, full lips, deep eyes. The lines of her jaw and neck—and he has no idea why he should fixate on those parts of her in the way he suddenly is, but mingled sense memory and fantasy washes over him, so vivid: gliding his lips up her throat, closing his teeth lightly over the soft skin just beneath her jaw and how that skin yielded and she shivered when he nipped at her, tasting her, faint salt and something indescribable.

His breath catches, although his gait remains steady. He's wanted women before her—one or two men as well, if the truth were known—but he’s never wanted any of them this way, this ravenous and all-consuming, so fierce it sometimes hurts him. Time hasn't diluted it. And he has no idea what she wants from him now, where they are has him even more perplexed, but there are certain things he can hope for.

“Stop,” she murmurs, and this time he obeys her immediately and without thought. He stands and waits for her to instruct him further. He's only a few yards away from her, close enough to see her face with perfect clarity. Her expression is impassive.

But he doesn't think he misses the glint in her eyes.

For a long moment she doesn't speak. She doesn't move. Neither does he. She simply looks at him and he looks back, and after a few seconds her gaze shifts from his face and travels slowly down his body. He can read her a little better now, can discern that her attention is coolly appreciative. She's going to look her fill and nothing is going to interrupt or hurry her.

She's looked at him this way many times before. Something warmly electric races down his spine.

It's not difficult to get your head around, wanting someone. It's another thing to know—without doubt or question—that you're _wanted_.

Her lips curl slightly. “Get down on your knees.”

Again, he doesn't hesitate at all.

Because whatever else is going on, the fact is that with her, this is a familiar attitude. It's one he's gotten very comfortable with—not that he needed much in the way of training when it became clear that it was something she wanted.

He hoped for it. He now dares to believe he might get what he was hoping for. Her… and more than her.

She uncrosses her legs, and slowly she spreads them. And while she's still fully clothed, dressed as she would be for any day at Court, there's something so aggressively enticing about that simple change in pose that a watery sensation runs through his muscles and he nearly falls onto his hands as well. 

Which would have merely been getting a bit ahead of the game, because the curve of her lips widens into a wicked smile. 

“Crawl.” 

He moans. He can't help it. He moans and a wave of heat surges down between his legs and he doesn't need to touch himself to know that he's already diamond hard. She gets him this way without a hand laid on him, with a single fucking word, and he drops forward, his hair falling into his eyes and his breath coming in tight pulls as he crawls to her, up the steps to her throne. 

To his Empress’s throne. 

He can only imagine what he looks like when he's this way, and he loves to do so. Loves to try to picture what she must see. This man, tall and powerful and utterly lethal if he has to be, falling at her feet for the sheer joy of doing so. Maybe it’s odd to take so much enjoyment in being weak like this; it was certainly odd to him in the earliest days of it, no matter how naturally it came to him. But he felt no shame then and he feels none now, and anyone who would, if they crouched where he is, simply doesn't understand.

More’s the pity for them, because oh, what they'd be missing. 

He's almost reached her when she lifts her leg and halts him again with a boot pressed against his shoulder. He stops and stares up at her, and all the moisture in his mouth evaporates at once as she rises, her smile not fading one iota, and begins to undress.

It's not difficult to grasp why she's not letting him do it for her, not this time. But he aches to, from the core of him all the way to his fingertips, and he bites back a whimper as she shrugs off her jacket and removes her vest, her blouse, and bends slightly to unbutton her boots and pull down her trousers. She's going neither slow nor fast, and there's even a routine air to how she's stripping as well as a sense of relief, as if she's alone in her room at the end of a long day and finally able to put on something far more comfortable.

Which in this case is nothing at all.

Her drawers follow her trousers, she unfastens her corset in a few practiced flicks of her fingers and tosses it aside with the rest, and doesn't bother to give him time to take in the sight of her before she settles back onto the throne with a sigh.

Her legs still spread. Not wide, but he can see enough.

His previously dry mouth is soaking wet.

This time her smile is lazy and speculative as she tilts her head and looks him over, reaches up and absently cups her own small, full breast. Teases her nipple with her thumb. He can see it tightening, and it’s a whole new kind of torment, because Outsider’s _eyes,_ all the things he wants to do to her are coalescing in his mind and spinning into a literally dizzying whirl of images, and if she even allows him to do _one_ of them— 

She raises her bare foot again, holds it directly in front of his face. “Come and kiss it.”

He practically scrambles. Still no shame, absolutely none, already naked in his eagerness to close the last distance between them and take that delicate foot in his hands, cradle it, duck his head and press his lips against it. Not a quick little peck but just the way she likes it: lingering, open-mouthed, swirling his tongue against her salty leather-scented skin like a promise of what else he might do for her if she opens that much to him. 

But for the moment she simply releases another sigh and leans back further, and when he briefly lifts his eyes to look at her she's leaning her cheek on her hand, watching him worship her with a ghost of that smile playing around her mouth.

“I love seeing you this way,” she murmurs. “You're beautiful no matter what you do, but oh, Corvo…” A quiet laugh escapes her. “Like this, you're perfect.”

He closes his eyes and kisses her again, circles his thumbs around the knobs of her ankle. He would never know how to respond to that in any other way, not given a lifetime to think it over, and in any case… even if this was all she let him do, he would be satisfied with it, but he can _smell_ the dense, heady scent of her cunt when she parts her legs wider, can glimpse the flushed sheen of her labia, and it’s almost enough to undo him. 

As if she can read his mind: “You want to lick me, don't you?” 

He falters. Raises his head, although she hasn't given him permission—and maybe she'll punish him for that, with denial or pain, and that would be fine, but he couldn't help his moan when she ordered him to crawl to her and he can't help it now.

“Yes.” 

Breathless and strained, and, he realizes dimly, the first word he’s spoken.

Her tongue sweeps across her lips. “So ask me.” 

_Beg_ _me_.

“Please.” He struggles to summon more coherence than that. Words. He needs to use words. He needs to because she wants him to. “Please let me.” 

“Let you what?”

“Let me lick you, Jess, _please_.”

“You really want it?”

So she's letting him call her by her name. She doesn't always. He shivers; he's so hard it hurts, and he's well aware that it's not outside the realm of possibility that she'll take what she wants from him and simply leave him that way, without permission to take care of it himself. Leave him to suffer, and in every second of discomfort, thinking of her. 

His voice is wound so tight it's almost a croak. “I want it so bad.”

Incredibly, miraculously, she's sitting up and cupping the back of his head, guiding him gently in as she finally spreads her legs wide enough to frame his shoulders. “My love, I could never deny you anything.” She chuckles. It's a wonderfully rich sound, born deep in her throat. “Not when your manners are so fine.” 

That's not true, of course, and they both know it, but it doesn't matter; she nudges the back of his head and he just about dives into her, bracing shaking hands over the tops of her thighs and closing his mouth over the soft, slick paradise surrounded by her thatch of dark curls. 

This is not fencing. He's not going to do this with any finesse. Or if he does, it's going to be with finesse of the roughest kind, tonguing between her swollen lips and lapping at the wetness spilling out of her—oh, she wants him, she's been wanting him just as bad as he wants her since he walked into the room—swallowing with a heavy groan and moving up to circle her clit in rapid, precise strokes. She releases her own groan and at the edge of his vision he sees her leaning back, her face lifted to the ceiling and her mouth falling open. 

She's told him he's very good at this and he believes her. He tries to be very good at most things he does, but this one is especially important to him.

Her hand is still cupped over the back of his head and she's applying more pressure, holding him in place as if there was any chance he would try to stop before she tells him to, and her other is on her breast again, tweaking her nipple—and as he's sucking at her clit he's thinking of what it's like to suck that too, feel it harden as he does, close his teeth so carefully over it and tug until she's gasping and pulling at his hair.

She's a garden of splendor. She's a vast palace of delights. He could explore her all night and not consider himself satisfied. 

Stars know he's made the attempt.

She's also getting close—it never takes her very long, especially not when he's applying all his skill to pleasing her in this specific way, and she's rolling her hips up and panting, moaning on every exhale, hissing broken fragments of his name.

Sometimes she backs him off, stretches it out. Apparently not this round; with her hands and her voice she's encouraging him, grinding her cunt against his face as he feasts on her, and her keening twists up into a strangled cry as her orgasm grips her and bucks through her, her cunt so wet and salty-sweet in his mouth and if he could pour her into a glass like fine wine, by the fucking _Void,_ he'd drink her down.

Sharp jerk at his hair; he knows the signal and stops and pulls back, gasping to match her, gazing up at her with blunt adoration as the last aftershocks heave through her and she begins to loosen.

And then laughing softly, those yanking fingers gentling, almost petting him. “Corvo,” she breathes, and laughs again. “You're so good. You're so good to me.” 

_No, no, you're good to me,_ he thinks desperately—but can't make himself say. _I try, I try my best with everything I have and everything I am, but it's not possible that anything I do could match what you give me._

But he still tries.

“In fact, I feel like I should return the favor.” She straightens, abruptly brisk—startlingly so, given how lax she was only a moment ago—and fingers the edge of his collar. “Get this off. All of it.”

He's so close to falling again when the words unravel through his brief daze, but just as he's about to attempt to find his feet, she takes hold of his collar and keeps him there. 

“Wait.” 

He waits, breathless. And she leans in and licks along the seam of his lips, parts them with her tongue and licks into him—tasting herself. Savoring. 

Fuck, that _tongue_. 

Getting his clothes off is difficult. Remaining upright is difficult. She lounges and watches him, her dark eyes shining, and somehow he remembers how to use his hands, at least enough to do as she says. He does it clumsily, not that grace matters here, and casts his clothes aside to join hers—and then he's standing naked in front of her, skin prickled everywhere with goosebumps that have nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature, his cock jutting out and glistening with precome and feeling as if it's straining at the very air. 

She pauses another moment, merely looking at him. Openly admiring. Then she leans forward and curls her hand around the base of his shaft, and his hands clench into fists at his sides and it's all he can do to keep from sobbing.

The rule—it’s always the rule when they're playing with each other this way—is that he doesn't get to come until she gives him leave to do so. If she does at all. Sometimes he manages to abide by it and sometimes he doesn't, and at this point, if he had to guess which it's going to be this time, he really could go in either direction. 

If he breaks it, his punishment might be especially dire.

He almost wants that. It's not unheard of for him to break it on purpose.

“Lovely,” she murmurs, and raises her eyes. She's close enough for him to feel her breath. It'll be a wonder if he doesn't lose control. “Is this for me?”

He drags air into his collapsing lungs. “It's all for you.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

She leans in and wraps her gleaming lips around him, and he wrestles back a cry. 

Before, he wasn't worried about them being caught like this. It didn't even occur to him. Now, for some reason and all at once, it does, and a fine thread of fear weaves itself into the overwhelming pleasure as she takes him deeper, as deep as she can, and pulls back, tightening her fist and running her tongue up the underside, sweeping over the head and flicking lightly at his slit. If someone walked in right now. If a servant blundered through the side door. A guard. It could happen. It could absolutely happen. And they might be ordered to stay silent about it but it wouldn't make a difference in the end, because _the Empress sucking the Royal Protector’s cock on the Imperial throne_ is the kind of delicious story one cannot _possibly_ keep to oneself.

And he finds—not for the first time—that the idea excites him even more.

There's no way she would have decided to do this here if it didn't excite her too.

As if he needs anything else exciting. He's trembling with the effort of keeping himself in check as she quickens the pace, the slippery glide of her lips and the heat of her mouth, and the bright spark of pain as he digs his nails into his palms only makes matters worse. _Please,_ he might be muttering, _please, I can't—_ Which is when she stops so abruptly that he's disoriented, gaping down at her and trying to work out what she's doing as she dips a finger into her mouth and wets it.

And really, he should instantly know. 

“You better not,” she says, a trifle ominous. “You still have to fuck me, and I am not waiting for you to be ready again.” 

He whines helplessly, hopelessly, as she takes him back in and reaches around to nose her slick finger into the crack of his ass.

Her saliva won't be sufficient, not to fully penetrate him. Not without more pain than she likely wants him to feel. But it'll be miserable enough, how _amazing_ it is: merely her finger finding his asshole and pressing teasingly against it, pushing just barely past his resistance, sliding her fingertip in a slow circle. It's good that it's not slick enough for her to do what she might do, it's all for the best that she can't work him open and fuck him that way with her fingers or one of her toys, because there is no way in any world in existence that he wouldn't come down her throat in seconds. 

Somehow he's obeying her. It shouldn't be possible but somehow he is. Teetering on the very edge, pleading mindlessly for her to stop or keep going or he doesn't even know, and she's _merciless,_ she has a reputation for being a kind and patient monarch but if only they all knew how _cruel_ she can be, and he's finally at the very end of what he can take when she pulls back again and withdraws her finger, ceases the torture. Leaves him unsteadily on his feet, shaking everywhere and perilously close to crumpling. 

“I’ll give you some time to… collect yourself,” she purrs. “A couple of minutes only. Then I want you.” 

A couple of minutes. It might be enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on leveling out his breathing, and doing everything in the world except thinking about what it's going to be like to be in her.

He's almost successful.

But he believes it's still enough. Because when she tugs on his cock with a cheerful “Time’s up”, he doesn't break.

He stumbles back when she gets to her feet, and he manages to stay up when she takes him by the shoulders and turns him, presses him onto the throne. It doesn't register, what she's doing. It doesn't make sense. Later he'll think about the implications of that, wonder how many of them she was thinking about as well, and he won't have the first clue what to feel, but for now all he can do is watch with that same helplessness as she climbs into his lap and straddles his hips, takes hold of his cock, and sinks down onto him with a happy sigh that isn't quite drowned by his broken moan. 

She stays there for a few seconds, not moving. She simply rests with him inside her, her head dropped back between her shoulders and her hands braced against his collarbones, her chest rising and falling with her breath. And because she didn't say he couldn't, because maybe he's feeling just that daring, he lifts his hands and closes them over her breasts, weighing them. Toying with her nipples. Kneading gently.

Instead of reprimanding him, she shivers and covers his hand with one of her own. 

“Let me,” he says softly, and doesn't specify what he's asking her to let him do when he reaches up with his free hand, pulls the pins from her hair and sets it free to cascade in black waves over her shoulders. 

She shakes her head slightly and her lips quirk. “Better?”

He could weep, she's so beautiful. “Perfect.” 

Her smile widens. She straightens and lets out a soft laugh, and starts to move.

He was touching her because he wanted to. But it doesn't take him long to be holding onto her for dear life as she rides him, shifting from her breasts to her hips and doing nothing more than remaining still and letting her fuck herself with him, use him how she wants. He might be able to hang on long enough for her to get her fill, but what she's doing to him is a full-on assault, speeding up the rocking of her pelvis and tightening the muscles of her cunt around him. He knew it would be a whole other level of torture and it is, the sweetest possible torture; her mouth was hot and wet but it's nothing compared to this, because this, what she's giving him, is all of her. 

It's everything. 

“That's good,” she gasps, hooks her nails into his chest and reaches between them with her other hand to give herself the last thing she needs. “That's so good, Corvo, you're so _good—_ ”

When she pinches playfully at his nipple it's finally too much, it's too fucking much, and begging her permission is in fact basically a moot point but he does it anyway in a strangled, agonized voice, _ah_ fuck _please Jess I can't stop it please_ please...

“Come with me,” she moans—laughs, again she's laughing, and it's so wonderful that it actually stops him, because all he can do is lose himself in the glory of her as her body throws itself into an arch and dissolves into violent shudders, her fingers working furiously at her clit and her teeth bared, her hair run wild and her features fixed into a grimace that he might believe was pain if he didn't know better.

If he didn't know so much better.

Then at last he can, and she swallows his hoarse shout as he wrenches and floods into her, so much and so _hard,_ as if it's all of him. 

All of him, hers.

Then for a long time there's nothing.

Gradually the world seeps back into his awareness, bit by individual bit. The rosewater scent of her hair. The comfortable weight of her in his arms. The rise and fall of her back beneath his hands and the bumps of her spine under his fingers. The dampness of her skin. Her lips moving against his throat, saying something he can't make out. The pounding of his pulse between his ears. He's still inside her—softening, but if only he could stay anyway, if only he could stay there as long as he likes. 

Dimly it occurs to him: he didn't pull out of her before he came. Which is a thing they try to avoid, as a rule, but rules… They're made to be broken, aren't they?

And no matter what, they're taking a risk every time they do this.

She stirs and lifts her head, blinks at him. Her smile is loose and slightly giddy. “Hello.”

He laughs, a chest-deep rumble, and kisses her for a while. 

“That was… bold,” he says after the kiss breaks and there’s another moment of silence, and he feels her grin. 

“It is bold, we’re still here.” 

“Mm. We should probably change that, don't you think?” Faintly regretful and not trying to hide it; he understands the need for secrecy and it doesn't even trouble him most of the time, but there's an element of freedom that maintaining it denies them, and if he's honest…

It would be nice to be free with her. It would be very nice indeed.

Free with her, and utterly and delightfully her slave. 

“Soon,” she murmurs. She tucks her head under his chin and snuggles against him, and the ache he feels is of a completely different kind. “Not just yet.”

“I love you,” he whispers, and the ache flares. “Jess, I love you so much.”

“I know.” She presses a kiss to his breastbone. Over his heart, he thinks. “I love you too.”

He holds her there, for as long as she wants. He holds her until the moon begins to set and the gauzy light fades from the floor, and the chill creeps back into the room. He would hold her for longer than that, if he could.

He would hold her forever.

~

Nine months later, as he sits on the edge of her bed and watches her cradle a sleepy Emily to her breast, the memory of that night returns to him and he gives her a small, secret smile.

And when she returns the smile in kind, he knows she remembers too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bisexual Corvo Attano is canon and I don't care what anyone says.


End file.
